The New Year has arrived with a leftover question: whatever should I do with myself next?
Five years ago I chose an itinerant existence, and pursued the goal with blithe indifference to the consequences. I wanted mad adventures, crazed pursuits. I wanted to travel. So I did.
Intermittent residency taught me that this town is largely about alcoholism and adultery. I find both banal but I didn’t need to worry about it, because I wished to be elsewhere. All the time.
While Cambridge baffled and annoyed, it also entertained, and served a stalwart role. I like my bicycle, my boat, and the river, and the other arrangements that anchored me here on occasion were sufficient to purpose. It was a place to store my things.
But recently I woke up and wanted… a home. Not just a house, and certainly not a fixer or project, but a solid structure, where I can spend all of my time. Where I can sleep, and work, hang out, throw parties (remember my parties?).
With a couch.
Of course I used to have all the standard material possessions – I bought my first house in Portland at age 26, and within a short time had moved on to acquire a Seattle property, on a hill, with a view of the Cascade Mountains. I would never glamorize the experience of home ownership, because I found it annoying. I am not the sort who enjoys renovating or (worse yet) decorating. I do not cook, or clean, or care.
I would rather sleep in a hotel and eat in restaurants.
So why this irrational urge toward domesticity? Why do I keep buying architecture magazines, and ogling kitchen towels? The itch is rather surprising, and has no known source. Maturity, or just age? Both? Something worse?
I have no idea. But I am sitting in a club in Shoreditch drinking peppermint tea and watching the bartender do a crossword. See? Old!
